


Red Feathers

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Sherlock is a Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord John Watson is invited to the Coronation Masquerade ball of Prince Sherlock Holmes. While there, he gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> My gift to rubymarlin for the johnlockchallenges gift swap!

_The Royal Family requests your presence at the Prince's Coronation Masquerade Ball on the 16th of November._

John Watson stared at the invitation with great disdain. As a member of the High Society of London, John would of course be invited to the Prince's bloody ball.

It was already being talked about, the masques being designed craftily by females as far as hundreds of kilometres away. Everyone knew what a Coronation ball meant-a wedding. The Prince, Sherlock, would be choosing a wife from the throngs of revellers throwing themselves at his feet.

John would go, he would mingle, and he would return home as usual because that's the way these things worked for John. He knew just as well as anyone that unless you were the Crown Prince himself you were only a filler for a dance until a Lady could get her hands on the Prince.

* * *

_The Royal Family requests your presence at the Prince's Coronation Masquerade Ball on the 16th of November_.

Sherlock grimaced at the words sloping across the page that Mycroft had handed him. Annoying, irresponsible, oaf. "Can I refuse? Say I don't want the Crown? Say I have a malady of sorts?"

"Brother, come now, it is a great responsibility and gift to be Crown Prince. Surely you want to be there?"

Sherlock huffed, handing the invitation back to his brother disdainfully. "If it's such an  _honour_  then why did you pass it down to me?"

Mycroft dusted a piece of lint off of his jacket. "You know my feelings about the matter. I am more than a figurehead; I am the backbone of this country."

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "Yes, quite right. You run the country. My next question then is why must I become betrothed at my Coronation?"

"Tradition," Mycroft answered. "You are also approaching your sixteenth birthday. High time you settle down with a Lady." Mycroft regarded his brother closely, folding one elegant leg over the other.

Sherlock pulled his shift over his head. "I do not wish to be surrounded by Ladies I must catch in a swoon."

"Do you prefer I get the men to swoon instead?" Mycroft asked coolly, levelling a stare at his brother.

"Preposterous. The ladies will do fine," Sherlock answered, avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

"I'm merely looking out for your personal comfort. I did see an invitation addressed to Baron Moriar-"

"Mycroft! That is enough. Get out of my chambers!"

Mycroft stood, smiling cruelly. "It's only a crime punishable by death, if you are caught lying with him."

"Out!" Sherlock demanded, pointing at his chamber door.

Mycroft tilted his head as he opened the door, eyes twinkling dangerously. "Have it your way. I will see you at four for your fitting."

Sherlock stared at the door closing behind his brother, cursing the all-knowing man. Maybe he could find the warlock Merlin and convince him to turn Mycroft into something more useful. Like a toad.

* * *

John held out his arms as the sartor measured him. John had seen his plans for the doublet and cape, and thought both to be fitting. The scarlet lining of the cape would match nicely with the red of the shift that would peek through the small slashes of his doublet. John had opted for a less full sleeve, not wanting to come off as a pretentious suitor. The cape sloped down his back, right to mid-calf and the exterior was the same charcoal grey as the breeches he would be wearing.

Overall John thought that he would look quite dashing, and if he were going anywhere other than the Prince's Coronation Ball he'd actually have a snowball's chance in hell to get a Lady to notice him. Alas, that was not how the night would end. He would eat and drink and dance and go home slightly pissed alone. Quite how he preferred it if he were truly honest with himself.

* * *

"I look like a pompous prick Mycroft, and we both know there is only room for one of those in the family and you do fill the shoes so well," Sherlock complained into the mirror. "The sleeves are too full. I refuse to wear this!"

"Sherlock, it is a masquerade, everything is supposed to be over-the-top."

"I look like I'm wearing a dress. Just narrow the sleeves," Sherlock almost begged.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, but the shoulder lapels stay. You will not go out there looking like a commoner."

"Fine," Sherlock spat, picking the cape up off a nearby chair and ran his fingers over the dark blue and golden silk.

"The mask is much less gaudy if that helps any."

"May I inquire as to its appearance?"

Mycroft opened the lid to the box the mask was concealed in and handed it over to his brother carefully. Sherlock took it with equal grace, his fingers running across the smooth porcelain. The mask itself was a rich, midnight blue, the eyes rimmed in liquid gold that shimmered at the light hit it. Two silk strings were attached to the sides where Sherlock would tie it around his head. Three feathers dyed blue had been attached to the left corner of the mask to give it a subtle flair.

"Couldn't the costume have been as simple as the mask?" Sherlock queried, placing the mask gently back into the box.

"The tailor thought a more stately costume would be appropriate for the use of such a simple mask."

"Obviously the mask isn't the only simple thing."

Mycroft cracked a grin, something rare for the man, and held his hand out towards his brother. "If you would be as kind to remove your doublet so that I can have the tailor alter it to your specifications."

Sherlock shrugged out of the doublet, tugging the hem of the purple shift he was wearing down. "I still think this entire ordeal is ridiculous."

"Yes, yes you're quite upset I know," Mycroft hummed as he swept out the door.

* * *

The day of the ball dawned bright and early; the sun shining annoyingly through the window and directly into Sherlock's firmly closed eyes. He groaned, rolling over and tossed his arm over his face. He blinked his eyes open wearily, hoping he had somehow slept through the bloody ball.

Suddenly his manservant, Lestrade, was bustling through the door. "Sherlock, time to wake up I'm coming in!"

"Lestrade, for being a forty-two year old manservant you enjoy your position extremely too much. Annoyingly so really."

"I enjoy annoying you every day Your Highness. At least you don't have Anderson," Lestrade grinned, moving further into the room.

"Mycroft only keeps him to make fun of him."

"I don't want to know what you say about me."

"I only mention how daft you are when you forget to make my bed or one of the other idiotic things you do."

Lestrade huffed, tossing a shift at Sherlock's head. "Get up, I have to have you fed, bathed, and clothed for the ball."

"Must I go Lestrade? Can I not suffocate myself instead?"

"Stop with the dramatics, you're going. Don't you want to be happy and meet a Lady and fall in love?"

Sherlock snorted. "Love is for fools."

"Come now Sherlock, you can't possibly mean that. You just haven't met the right person."

"Hmph," was all Sherlock offered as a reply, pressing his face into the pillows.

Lestrade made his way over to the bed and yanked the sheets down and off Sherlock.

"Oi!" Sherlock yelped, curling in on himself. "You could have stoked the fire first!"

"You wanted to be a royal prat."

"I'll have you beheaded, I'll do it, I will!"

"No you won't," Lestrade laughed as he tossed a log onto the fire. "You'd never find anyone who would put up with your bratty ways like I do."

Sherlock grumbled, catching the breeches Lestrade lobbed at his head.

"Cheer up. If all else tonight, you get to make fun of the people that make themselves look like fools in front of you."

Sherlock grinned. "That, Lestrade, is the only thing that gets me through this horrendous affair."

"You have to choose a Lady tonight you know. The King and Queen will be cross if you don't."

"Mummy and father can be upset with me as long as they like. It is my life and I will live it how I see fit."

"Yes and endure their wrath if you disobey their rules. You don't have to really like her, just pick the quietest and least annoying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How helpful you are."

Lestrade grinned and set a plate out for Sherlock containing an apple, a wedge of cheese, bread and grapes. He poured a goblet of wine as Sherlock made his way over to the table. "Eat up, we have a busy day. I'll draw a bath while you eat."

Sherlock groaned, plopping into his chair unceremoniously.

Lestrade shook his head as he walked away to warm the water for the bath, wondering if Sherlock could even convince any Lady not to run away screaming after finding out Sherlock's true nature.

* * *

John was rushing around frantically, trying to figure out how to do his hair. He'd awoken with a sense of wanting to be the second-best looking bloke at the ball, seeing as Sherlock would be the first.

Not that John cared of course, that the Prince was as pale as the moonlight, or that the man looked positively ethereal in candlelight. No, he didn't care that Sherlock was lithe and all bone and sinew, the man was a git.

John thumbed across his mask, the five red feathers he had plucked from a rooster in the backyard adorning the simple cloth and plaster mask. It was all black except for a design curling around the right cheek and eye. He had made it himself, borrowing a bit of paint from a friend to make the design and had had his mother's seamstress sew the feathers on.

* * *

Sherlock glanced around the room solemnly, feeling more as if he were to attend his own funeral instead of his coronation. Then again, in Sherlock's opinion his funeral would be much more bearable.

Ladies danced around the room in all of their glory, dresses made in the finest fabrics their money could buy, waistlines cinched by corsets. Sherlock paid attention to none of that while he waited hidden in the wing for the announcement of his arrival.

It was customary tradition to allow the guests three songs before the Prince was announced, and Sherlock took the time to hide in the left wing corridor to scan the crowd. His eyes roamed across the elaborate costumes, full sleeves for the men, bunched fabrics around the bodices of the dresses for the women. Full skirts filled the space between couples and not for the first time that day Sherlock wished a hole would open up to eat him alive.

"You look nice brother," Mycroft spoke quietly from the left, emerging from the shadows.

Sherlock bit back the temptation to roll his eyes and settled for a haughty sigh instead. "I am to be announced Crown Prince after the next song."

"Finally accepting it?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored his brother, a flash of red having caught his eye in the endless sea of blacks, whites, and blues.

"Sherlock are you listening?" vaguely registered as sound in the back of Sherlock's mind as he watched the man move around the floor lithely, grinning at whatever his partner had just said.

"Mhmm, yes, quite so," Sherlock replied, his eyes following the man on the floor. Short, stocky, from a fairly wealthy family-

"Lord John Watson, he lives at Killerny Manor. His father was Lord Peter and mother Lady Isabella."

Sherlock's head swivelled quickly to look at his brother. "What are you talking about?"

"The man you were watching, the one with the red on," Mycroft replied drolly.

Sherlock snorted, turning back to search for the man in the crowd. "And why does any of that matter?"

"He's unwed," Mycroft continued, ignoring his brother's scathing look. "He's never taken to a particular Lady at any event we have attended and he tends to stare at the men longer than the women."

"Isn't that just brilliant," Sherlock growled, irritated by Mycroft's meddling. "Why that matters to you is beyond my comprehension."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother, "contrary to popular belief, I do care about you."

Sherlock hummed in disagreement, as the song below came to a close and the ensemble struck up the next song, slower than the last. "It matters not, I will be engaged this evening and my preferences will never be questioned. It's the way it must be isn't it?" sighed Sherlock, resigned to his fate.

Mycroft placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You've never been one to give up a fight Sherlock, why start now?" Mycroft removed his hand, meeting Sherlock's eyes before he turned to walk away.

Sherlock stood there for a moment more, watching the man, John, dance and Sherlock knew it had to be John.

* * *

Sherlock smiled as he moved forward to kneel in front of his Father, bowing slightly forward to accept the crown being place upon his head. He stood, amidst clapping, as his father outstretched his hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock stood, reciting the Holmes motto before being announced as the new Crown Prince, the man who would rule over the kingdom after his parents were gone.

He looked across the throng of people, catching eyes with John and held them for a second, John breaking away first before Sherlock continued to sweep the crowd with his eyes.

* * *

John glanced around the room as the music began again and people in masques flooded the floor. He was swept up in the sudden movement and found himself being dragged to the middle of the room with a woman in a puffy dress.

John appreciated the anonymity of a masquerade, no class structure in the way, everyone hoping to end up with the Prince. John would never be mistaken for Sherlock though; he was too short and stocky for such an assumption to be made.

John wondered if the prince were out with them already, if he'd had time to chance from his ceremonial clothing into his own costume.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes darted about the room as he slunk out of the corner, hoping to be unseen as he entered the throng of revellers. A hand on his shoulder caused him to pause, turning to find Mycroft leaning against a pillar. "Remember what I said to you earlier Sherlock. This night is what you make it."

Sherlock turned back to the crowd for a moment, his eyes settling on the red floating around in a sea of dull. "Can you arrange it?"

"Lord Watson? Of course I can. When the clock strikes half ten be on the edge nearest the stairs and I will have him meet you there." Mycroft regarded Sherlock with kindness in his eyes, his heart aching for his younger brother. Contrary to what Sherlock believed, Mycroft did care for him.

"Thank you," Sherlock spoke, his voice sincere.

Mycroft nodded, motioning toward the dancers with his hand. "Enjoy yourself, it is your birthday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving away from his brother and disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock found himself in the hands of what he believed to be the kingdom's number one most annoying woman. She had talked through half of the song and Sherlock feared she had figured out his identity, although there were at least three other men in the room of his same stature and hair colour; Mycroft's idea in the case of an assassin. Sherlock was tired of the drivel spewing from the woman's mouth and was relieved to see the time on the clock nearing half past ten.

Sherlock excused himself from the woman's presence and weaved his way through the couples in the room, looking towards the area Mycroft had directed him to, his heart dropping as he noticed John was not there.

* * *

John was startled by a strong hand clasping his shoulder that steered him away from the woman he was talking to. He turned to meet a masked man with eyes of ice and a mouth set into a thin line. "Lord Watson?" the man asked, his voice steely and frozen.

"Yes?" John responded, feeling as if his soul was being bared to the stranger.

"The gentleman near the clock requests your…presence," the stranger said.

John turned to look at the man near the clock, glancing around nervously and suddenly John understood the implications held in the stranger's words. "I'm not, I mean, I don't like men." John whispered, glancing around the room as if he were to be beheaded for even uttering the words.

"Of course Lord Watson. Either way, whether you admit it or not, the sir by the clock will be waiting." With that the man swept away into the crowd, disappearing from John's sight.

John turned back to where the tall stranger stood, watching John, eyes boring into John. John pondered his possibilities for a few moments before he found himself being pulled towards the man by some unseen force. John glanced over his shoulder to see no one watching him and headed towards the clock.

As he made his way towards the new masked stranger, John felt as if his entire being was on display, as if the shining eyes trained on him could read his every thought. He felt vulnerable in every way and the idea of turning around and fleeing from the ball in its entirety passed through John's mind more than once.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, the room seeming to stretch on forever, John made it to the man waiting for him. "You, erm, you asked for me?"

The man nodded, holding a hand out to John and he was struck at the long, delicate fingers. He'd never really thought any man beautiful, but the sharp planes visible in the man's body, and the soft, creamy skin exposed only slightly left John a bit light-headed at the thought of it all.

John took the man's hand, allowing himself to be led into a corridor off the ballroom and the heady rush of adrenalin surged through John as he realised how dangerous this really was. Not only was he sneaking off through the castle with a strange man, but doing anything with said man was cause to be beheaded.

John wasn't sure what pushed him farther down the corridor with the man, but he continued trailing behind him, taking two steps for every long stride of the other.

Finally the man stopped in front of a door, John skidding to a halt behind him. "In here," was all the man gave as an explanation before the knob was turning and John felt a hand on the small of his back, ushering him inside.

As soon as the door closed behind them John pressed the man against it, kissing him hard. He'd never had an encounter like this with woman nor man, but he  _needed_ it, needed to kiss and touch and fuck this man more than anything else. He parted the man's lips with his own, sliding his tongue into the other's mouth and was rewarded by a gentle sucking of his tongue that left John panting and hard in his breeches.

Somehow, John couldn't really tell you how with the kissing and touching and moaning, the pair made it to the bed, John on top, legs straddling the other man's waist. Clothes were discarded in the process, John's cape by the door, the man's cape and doublet a few steps further into the room. John took off his mask and gently placed it on the short table next to the bed. John reached to untie the silk string keeping the man's mask in place, when a pair of hands stopped him.

"We'll be keeping these on if you don't mind," the almost familiar crisp baritone rang out through the empty room.

John shivered slightly, the evening taking a much more mysterious turn and John wondered if perhaps he were flirting with danger. To be caught up like this with a man he didn't even know the face of? It was preposterous, but John wasn't going to argue with the pale skin stretching on before him in the slivers of moonlight shining through the window.

Legs tangled together and messy kisses were pressed to lips as John positioned himself over the man, pale eyes glinting through the slits in the mask and suddenly John was caught off-guard and unprepared at the revelation of who exactly he was about to fuck. "You're the bloody crown prince!" he gasped, backing off as he really took in the form of the man beneath him. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock stilled before he reached up to untie his mask, letting it fall to the bed. "That I am, seeing as we are in my chambers."

John glanced around, taking in the surroundings for the first time since the pair had tumbled through the door. Indeed, the room was designed for a Prince, the windows covered in velvet drapes, the bed sheets silk. "Your Highness, I don't understand," John babbled, "what – I don't understand…"

Sherlock sighed, "John, it's obvious, I don't like women. Please, just let me have this one night on my birthday so that I can be happy for just a while before I have to go out there again and pretend to woo one of those moronic, boring women."

John stared slack-jawed at Sherlock, processing the information. Did he want this, to risk everything for a person he had always thought of as the kingdom's largest prat? Of course, this was Sherlock, the bloody Crown Prince that could have him beheaded at a moment's notice. John would be lying if he said he didn't want to continue, to fuck Sherlock into oblivion, but it was dangerous.

"You, erm, you're not going to have me beheaded or anything when we're done since I know who you are, yeah?"

The left corner of Sherlock's mouth curled up in a smirk. "You think so little of me John? I shall only have you beheaded if you do not continue with our previous engagement." Sherlock punctuated his words with a quick thrust up into John.

John stilled for a moment more before leaning down to brush his lips against Sherlock's. "As you wish Your Highness." Before Sherlock could respond, John was capturing his mouth in a heated kiss, melting against the man beneath him as he rocked steadily downwards.

Sherlock slid his hands under John's shift; undo the buttons quickly as John worked at Sherlock's breeches with an almost frantic pace. "Won't they notice you're missing?"

"You didn't even know you were bedding me John, that's the point of a masquerade. If they do, Mycroft will see to it that everything is taken care of."

"Oh yes, the elusive brother. I take it he's the one who led me here?" John asked, pulling Sherlock's breeches off.

"The one and only. He worries about me he says." Sherlock cut off the rest of the conversation with a searing kiss to John's lips as he pressed a hand against the fabric of John's own breeches, feeling his erection thrumming.

John keened, pressing into Sherlock's hand as he slid his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth, sliding their tongues together. John shoved his breeches down, kicking them off ungracefully as he looked around. "Do you have anything…" he trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

Sherlock's cheeks coloured slightly as he mentally finished John's question. "There's lamp oil on the table."

John moved off of Sherlock, groaning at the loss of Sherlock's body against his, moving to the table as he shucked his shift to the floor. John grabbed the bottle of oil and made his way back to the bed, hands shaking. He sat the bottle down before sliding his linen drawers off. He shifted back towards Sherlock, pulling the silk drawers off of him, revelling in the sight of the Prince's hard prick.

Sherlock stretched out in all his sinewy glory, pale skin going on for miles as John climbed back onto the bed, making his way between Sherlock's legs. He watched the man, mercurial eyes boring into his own grey ones as he dipped his fingers into the oil. "Have you, ah, ever done this?"

Sherlock ducked his head slightly. "No. Have you?"

"I have not, but, erm, can't be that hard to figure out, yeah?" John watched Sherlock carefully; making sure the younger man was comfortable.

Sherlock nodded, biting his lower lip as John tentatively pressed an oil slicked finger against his entrance. John circled the area before slowly sinking his finger into Sherlock, causing the prince to moan and grab into the duvet. Sherlock whined at the intrusion, finding the sensation to be uncomfortable, but good all at the same time. It wasn't until John began to move his finger, sliding it easily in and out of him that Sherlock's breath went ragged and he was moaning softly at the feel of it dragging in and out of him.

"Please, another" Sherlock begged, voice raspy with want. He whined at the loss of John's fingers as John slicked two up with oil and pressed slowly in. Sherlock bit his lip at the soft pain from the stretch, the burning soon replaced by pleasure shooting through him and his cock gave an almost painful twinge. He was incredibly hard, fluid leaking from the head of his prick and sliding down in beads.

John was in a similar state, every ounce of self-control being used to keep himself from just thrusting into the prince and taking him all the way. He focused instead on the tight heat of Sherlock sucking his fingers in greedily as John stretched him open.

John pulled his fingers out again, dipping a third in before pressing them into Sherlock, arousal pooling in his belly at the sight of his fingers sliding in and out of Sherlock and his mind supplied the image of his cock pressing in and out of the same entrance. John spread his fingers inside Sherlock watching his face for signs of discomfort but was met with lust-blown eyes and mewling sounds.

"Please John, more," Sherlock pleaded, his hips moving involuntarily down to rock onto John's fingers.

John moaned, pulling his fingers out and slicked up his cock with oil. He lifted Sherlock's hips off the bed and slid slowly into him.

Sherlock gasped in pain as the head of John's cock breached him, but before long was pressing down, trying to get more of John's cock inside him.

John grasped Sherlock's hips as he slowly manoeuvred his way fully into Sherlock, panting as his thighs rested flush against Sherlock's own.

HE waited until Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly before moving, short, shallow thrusts at first that became longer and faster and harder, spurred on by the sounds escaping Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock pulled John down for a kiss, their moan being lost in each other's mouths as they moved together. Sherlock knew he was close, arousal tugging at his balls; much like when he wanked and hoped John was close as well.

John reached between them, knowing he wasn't going to last much longer and stroked Sherlock's cock twice before the Prince was moaning John's name and spilling across John's hand and their chests. Sherlock tightened around John's cock as he came, milking John's orgasm out of him, waves of pleasure rocking through his body as he spilled into Sherlock, collapsing on top of him, panting and moaning and sweaty.

"That was brilliant," John murmured into Sherlock's shoulder.

"I return the sentiment," Sherlock quipped, pushing John off. "Thank you," he said quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

"You're welcome," John answered, smiling as he ran a hand through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock started upon realising he still had a ball to attend. "We should probably go back, get dressed and all of that. There's a basin over there that you can use."

John clambered off the bed, feeling small and exposed, unsure of what would happen next. He made his way to the wash basin and dipped a flannel in it, washing himself before finding his clothes strewn about the room. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and he suspected that Sherlock was feeling vulnerable as well.

John dressed quickly and turned to Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak but was cut off by a wave of Sherlock's hand. "It's quite alright John, go ahead and leave, it's best we pretend this never happened anyway."

John hung his head, understanding the Prince's words. "Thank you," he managed reaching for the handle of the door.

"No, thank you," replied Sherlock, smiling softly at John although his eyes were hard. "Have a good time this evening."

"You as well," said John, pushing the door open as he wound his way back to the ballroom.

* * *

Sherlock had just finished buttoning his doublet when he heard a knock at his door right as it creaked open to reveal Mycroft. "I saw Lord Watson had returned to the ballroom, yet you had not."

Sherlock nodded, brushing off his cape as he tossed it carefully over his shoulder. "I must say thank you brother, he was what I wanted. I also must tell you shall need to expect and angry mob when I make my announcement this evening."

"Surely you aren't going to announce you are marrying him?" Mycroft nearly shrieked eyes boring into his brother.

"No, nothing like that, but you'll see."

Mycroft softened a bit; glad he wasn't going to have a bloodbath on his hands. "Well, whenever you're ready, Mummy and Father are ready for the announcement."

Sherlock grinned, "Alright, they're going to be surprised though."

"I'm sure everyone will be."

* * *

Sherlock stood on the stairs above the crowd, everyone silent, eyes boring into Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat, catching John's eyes before speaking. "Thank you all for attending my Royal Coronation ball. As you all know, I am supposed to pick a wife from all of you. Sadly, most of you fall short of my expectations, and those that do not still would not please me for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, laws of the kingdom prevent me from marrying the one of you who I do care about, so therefore, tonight there will be no proposal. Please do enjoy yourselves."

As soon as it became clear that Sherlock had finished speaking and was not speaking in jest, outcries of trickery and unfairness rose through the crowd. Mycroft stepped forward to take complaints as Sherlock was jerked backwards by his Father.

The King led Sherlock into an alcove where Mummy waited for him. "What kind of joke is this?" she asked, eyes wide as she stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at both of his parents solemnly before speaking. "The things I said, they're true, if I were to choose someone, I would be punished by beheading. I can't live a lie and you know that."

Mummy inhaled sharply as though Sherlock's words cut her. "You mean that you fancy men?" Her pallor had increased and Sherlock thought she might swoon.

Sherlock nodded, his father making a disgusted sound. "I can't help who I love. Why is it forbidden? I don't see anything wrong with it!"

This set the King and Queen to thinking. "It's abnormal," Father answered, looking at his son. "It isn't right."

"It doesn't happen often, yes," Mycroft's voice cut through the corridor, "but it does occur. I don't believe Sherlock to be in the wrong."

Mycroft smiled icily as his parents turned to glance at him. "I am in the process of repealing that law and setting a new one. Sherlock is free to love whom he pleases."

* * *

A year and three months later Sherlock found himself on the most terrifying carriage ride of his life. Seventeen years of age was too young to marry he thought, but if nothing went according to plan, he wouldn't have to worry about it anyway.

Mycroft had repealed the law and replaced it with one stating anyone could marry whom they chose, and Sherlock was on his way to Killerny Manor to see Lord Watson.

As they stopped in front of the manor, the door was opened by Lord Watson himself, standing in casual clothing as Sherlock climbed from the carriage. "Lord Watson?"

"Yes Your Highness?" John smirked, standing straighter.

Sherlock crossed to the steps of the home, bowing in front of John. "Will you marry me?"

John smiled, moving to hug Sherlock, "of course I will become your betrothed." He and the Prince had shared letters back and forth before the betrothal and Sherlock had known John's answer before he asked.

Truly, he'd had a perfect birthday.


End file.
